Rules of Engagement
by Ruby Casablanca
Summary: Ever since her disappearance, Oliver has been searching for Helena. Convinced that he can still get he to see the light, he tracks her down to an underground fight club in Gotham City. Gone once more, Oliver is forced to enlist the help of her greatest competitor: the Black Canary. They search tirelessly for her, but what will become of the pair when the search for Helena ends?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: Just to say it now, this story is **VERY AU **from the episode "Year's End" onwards, completely disregarding what is currently going on now in the show because when I came up with the idea, I didn't account for all these reveals. Hope you still like it though! And reviews are most welcome :)

* * *

Prologue - 1979

It's dark, and late, and really too obscene an hour to be up, but he's up. He never sleeps.

He's hunched over the old, grimy table, bottle half empty in his hand, the other occupied holding up his face. His head hurts like a mother, but then it always does these days. If it's not his head then it's his arm or his shoulder or worse, his heart. He wasn't even sure if he had one anymore.

The mention of a heart soured his mood. His temples throbbed a little harder, and he dealt with the dull ache like he always did. He lifted the bottle and took another swig, the pure liquor burning like fire all the way down his throat. The pain was nothing, however, in comparison to his chest, which constricted with the lack of that vital organ, freezing over by the day.

He had no love left to fill it. The love he once gave was utterly wasted by the woman lying God-knows where, curled up on the couch, far away from him. She couldn't even stomach the sight of him now. He was sure of it.

A tear threatened to spill from his bloodshot eyes, and in anger, he brushed it away. She wasn't worth crying over. She wasn't worth anything to him anymore. At least, he tried his best to believe that.

All the while in his bitter sorrow he had been drinking, putting it back, so when he reached for another sip, he was enraged to find the bottle empty. He was furious of this, not quite sure why he had such violent feelings. There was more in the house; he wasn't without remedy. Perhaps to him it was just the fact that the things he needed most were never there.

Growling, stumbling blindly to the yellowed, vinyl fridge, he reached down among the sparse contents only to find his usual stash of various liquors and beers gone. He had already depleted his cache. His face turned red at the injustice, of the lack of his crutch, and began to swear loudly, disturbing the quiet hum of the TV that was always on, no matter what.

He was outraged and mad, slamming the refrigerator door and screaming at no one in particular. He was throwing things, ripping open cupboards in a desperate frenzy to discover some sort of relief. He was becoming angrier and angrier by the second, smashing things to the ground as he cleared shelves in his search. There was nothing to be found, and his raging escaladed.

Just then, in the middle of his episode, _she_ walks in, eyes wide and murderously glaring, her hands placed on her hips. _Of course_, he thought, _she's fine when I am anything but_. That was always happening. The fighting, the vicious cycle, it never stopped.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" she screamed, her voice unnaturally high pitched as it always was when she was angry. She was always angry.

"What does it look like I'm doing!?" he bellowed back, shattering another plate on the ground as he cleared his current shelf. "Why the hell is there never any booze in this place?!"

"STOP! You stop right now!" she screamed, waving her arms. He didn't care to listen to her, and continued to make a mess of the place, making her angrier and angrier by the second, until she snapped. "I don't know what gives you the right to do this! You are completely out of control!"

"I'm out of control?" he asks, incredulous. "No,_ you're_ the one who is out of control!" he shouts at her, stumbling away to his next drawer, yanking it open and scattering the silverware.

"You are drunk," she spat at him, finally registering the overwhelming smell of alcohol that had evaded her before. "That's all you ever are now! You are so fucking wasted that you can't even see straight, and I am out of control?!"

"Well maybe, if you weren't so _emotionally unavailable_," he raised his fingers into air quotes, taking on a mocking tone, "I wouldn't be like this! Maybe, if you'd fucking get off of your ass and do something for once, we wouldn't be in this mess!" He hissed at her though a few words were slurred, throwing a glass across the kitchen, the fragments shattering loudly against the wall. She ducks as the glass scatters across the tile floor to join its other broken counterparts.

"How dare you blame this on me!" she screams, frightened and outraged at the same time. "You are un-fucking-believable, do you know that?! Do you think I choose to be this way?!"

He snorts out a hot breath, turning hateful eyes on her and slamming his fists on the wooden countertop. "I don't even know what you do anymore. And obviously, you don't give a damn about me either!"

"That is not true," she hissed.

He was about to say something back when a noise came from the entrance to the kitchen. There, standing in the doorway with a blanket and teddy bear in hand, was his daughter, eyes sleepy and wide. She looked terrified, like she had been watching for a while. He almost expected the fight to end right then and there, but it didn't. It only escaladed.

"Oh perfect! Look what you've done now!" she yelled, pointing at the young girl who had taken cover behind her mother's legs. "You woke her up!"

"Oh, so you're blaming this on me too? Because your screaming had nothing to do with it?!" he was fuming.

"You don't care about anyone but yourself! You are a selfish bastard! You don't care about her!" she retorted. "You've got her scared half to death! The girl fears her own father!"

"No, she fears the mother who abandons her every time she gets a headache!" he fired away, delivering a low blow. "And who can blame her? At least I try to be there for her. At least I can act like a parent!"

"And drinking, causing this scene, that's being a parent? What kind of example are you setting?!"

She continued to blast him, but his eyes only saw fire, and his heart, though damaged, only felt fury. His sight was failing him as he shattered more things, everything blurring, his wife's face distorting, but all her saw was red. He knew he was drunk, that he was impaired, but that wouldn't stop him now. He wanted her bitching to stop. Now.

"You want me to stop? Then **FINE**!" he threw the empty bottle he'd been waving in her face across the room, not caring to see where it went. "This is me stopping! Happy now?!"

"You know what, I am tired of your bullshit!" she got in his face, nearly deafening him by her shrieks. "I am so done with this! Marrying you was the worst mistake of my life! I swear to God-"

He was ready to get this over with, but something had made her stop. He followed her eyes to where she was fixated before the figure there let out a pitiful whine, tears welling up in the registration of what had happened.

He immediately paled, sobering up substantially. Because there, in the middle of the kitchen, standing in the remains of the shattered liquor bottle, was his daughter, blood running down her back like a river as he saw a shard of clear glass lodged within her. The girl didn't cry, or wail, she just let the tears run down her face as the blood soaked through her nightgown. He thought he was going to be sick.

And then, as the shock wore off, all hell broke loose.

He could barely process the screams, both profane and scared coming from his wife's mouth. He could barely register movements. He was frozen in place as his wife ran to her, scooping up the bleeding child and dialing 911. He tried to speak, gestured to help, but he was met with a cold slap to the face. It stung and left a metallic taste in his mouth. For once, he could not protest.

"You!" she spat through tears and hatred. "You are a despicable, horrible son of a bitch! How could you?! Your own daughter!"

"I-I…" he could barely reply, his scattered focus rotating between his bleeding daughter now swaddled in her mother's arms and his own hands, which he could not believe could've done such evil things. He was in utter shock. He couldn't wrap his mind around it yet. The blood was so harsh, so foreign a concept, and he prayed it all to be one sick joke. He reached for the girl, for his wife, but she jumped back in repulsion.

"No, don't you touch me! You stay away from me!" she screeched, her voice cracking under stress. "You are lucky if I don't sue, that I don't come after you for every cent you own!"

She ran her hands through her hair, running around the apartment, screaming death wishes at him from every room as he stood horror-struck in place, staring at the puddle of blood on the floor. He wasn't really registering what was happening until she reemerged with a duffle bag on her shoulder, her eyes set steely ahead, shooting daggers. It occurred to him somewhere in the back of his mind that there was no way she had packed that fast, that she must've been planning on leaving for a while, but he couldn't move to stop her. He honestly didn't know if he wanted to.

"I'm leaving, getting the hell out of here!" she cried, lifting the child back into her arms and grabbing the keys to the car. "Somewhere far away where you'll never see me or her ever again! That I can promise you!"

"Please, don't-" he began, guilt overcoming him.

He felt his world crashing in on him and he moved to stop them, to beg forgiveness, but he stumbled and fell to the ground, his foot catching on a chair. He watched helplessly as she took his little girl away, out the door and into the darkness of night. She didn't even say goodbye. The slam of the door and the screech of the tires melted into one distant sound as colors swirled in his head, the effects of all the booze and stress falling in on him. He collapsed into darkness on the floor. He prayed for it to kill him.

When he woke up that morning, there was still glass on the floor. The blood had dried, the scent of alcohol had staled over, and his wife and daughter were still gone. It wasn't a dream; he couldn't wish it away, and despair overtook him. He was alone, and somewhere, thunder rolled, the dark storm clouds moved in for good.

This was just the beginning.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 1- Rules of Engagement

Bright lights. That was all he could perceive. Bright lights and too much noise coming from the building across the street from where he was perched high above in the shadows. Five years ago, he would've died to get into that club just because he could. But that place of obscene, reckless behavior wasn't on his agenda, at least not tonight. Tonight he had a different place in mind, somewhere much more secret, much more valuable than a rave.

There, just behind that obnoxious institution was the place he really intended to crash. A low, dirty building resembling the structures on that cursed island peeked out beyond the glamour. Past the rich and wonderful wasteland laid a dark and vast unknown that held the very thing he was after.

The very _person_ he was after.

He had been tracing her for weeks, scouring the upper state area for any activity, desperately searching for any sign that she was still around. He was sure Diggle was about ready to strangle him from the rafters because of all the hours he spent on the computer searching her name, but he needed to find her, stop her from doing anything she'd regret. He was so convinced that he could still save her. He knew she was dangerous, that she needed serious help, but he had no room to judge her actions. He just supposed that if there was hope for him after living in that hell, then there could be some hope for a desperately lost and heartbroken heiress.

Helena was not beyond saving; he was not going to give up on her without a fight, and he was going to try his damndest to believe that his heart had nothing to do with it.

And finally, his painstaking searches had paid off. He had managed to track her there, to the building right beyond his view, a proclaimed abandoned shipping warehouse in the depths of the Gotham underworld. Obviously, with all the discreet yet uncovered vibrations coming from beneath the building, it didn't take a genius to know that it at least part of it was open for business. Now, it was up to him to discover exactly what business Helena had gotten herself into.

So, with all his usual grace and deception, he jumped to the ground from the three-story platform he had been stalking from, and wove his way around the streets, careful as not to be seen by the rich and famous flooding the more fashionable lanes. When he finally got there, nothing waited for him, no guards, no guns. He was skeptical at the least, but that didn't stop him from smashing in one of the side windows and slinking into the grimy institution.

The place was definitely abandoned on the inside, broken down machinery, graffiti, and a foot-high layer of dust on everything was a clear sign. This couldn't possibly be where he was looking for. The space was one large room, no other doors or entries could be seen. The upper level was only a catwalk around the edges, all open to his sights. He paced the perimeter once more, but nothing changed; he was alone, no one around, no sounds made save for the rats that squeaked in the corner.

He was about ready to leave, furious at his being wrong, when he felt the floor shift under his feet. He was caught off guard, but moved quickly to play the corner when he heard the stone creak loudly, like the sound of gears that were coated with years of rust. The ground lifted open to reveal a trapdoor and two burly men coming from underneath. The hatch clicked shut behind them, flowing seamlessly into the floor, and he mentally marked the spot where it was.

From the shadows, he could tell that the men now wandering around the room were armed, most likely trained thugs, hired by whoever owned the place…whatever this place was. He remained quiet and eavesdropped on their conversation, careful not to get too close.

"Boss says to check the place out. Said she heard someone looking around," one said, the voice low and gruff.

"Cops?" the other asked, a hint of annoyance laced in his tone, and he chuckled. No, he was worse than any cop.

"Nah, not enough. We would've heard 'em by now. But whoever it is, the boss wants taken care of. We don't need no one interfering with the fights."

"Well, let's get this over with. I have a bet on the next one."

This piqued his interest, now listening in with greater intensity. He wanted to know more about these fights, about what they were for exactly, though the feeling in his gut told him that they weren't good.

"Yeah, like there's anything to bet!" the first guy snorted. "We all know who's gonna win."

"I don't know. I placed my money on the Huntress. She'll win this time; she's different than last time."

"True, though no one is a match for the champ. She's been winning for six months straight now! Ain't no one that can beat that!"

"We'll see."

He was confused even more, though the name Huntress struck a chord in him. He was sure it was Helena. And he didn't know what they meant about winning this time, but he had a bad feeling that if he was right and Helena was the Huntress, then whatever she had gotten herself into wouldn't end well for her.

He couldn't waste any more time waiting around for them to talk. He strung one of his paralysis arrows and aimed it at the first, much larger man, watching him fall in seconds. The other, now on alert, pulled out his gun and started pointing it at different areas of the room. He could see the fear on the man's face, the way he moved the gun at every creak of the walls. He even fired off a few shots, the bullets ricocheting across the steel walls. He quickly strung another arrow, hitting the man right in the chest.

He moved out of the shadows and over to the floor where he ran his fingers over the slightly raised edge of the trapdoor. There had to be some sort of mechanism, and his fingers soon hit a bump in the line and he pressed down, hearing the click in the gears as the dust rose with the slab. It opened without fail, leaving him just enough room to sidle down the stone stairs before it closed in on him.

The area beneath the warehouse was completely different than the space he had just been in. It was dark, yes, but in the more intentional way like a night club. In fact, he could say it looked like a club, the big man sitting on a stool at the edge of the metal corridor he came out in looking rather like a menacing bouncer. The two looked at each other, his eyes much darker and dangerous than his counterpart's and the man let him past the barbed-wire door. As soon as the gates shut behind him, sealing him inside like a prisoner, strobe lights hit his eyes, smoke filled his nostrils, and shouts filled his ears. It was _exactly_ like he was in a club, but what kind of club was the question.

He slowly moved through the sea of wild people, all drinking, smoking, but most of all waving money at each other, the bills scattered across the floor, flying in the air. There were whole lines of people screaming and jumping, waving wads of cash at people behind barred tables. Bets. They were bets, he recognized, though he did not know what had them such in a frenzy to place them.

No one recognized him, and those who did only shot him looks. They didn't care; that was obvious. Their town had a different adjudicator, one much more fearsome, and as long as he wasn't him, then they didn't care who he was. The people let him be, and he took to taking in more of his crowded surroundings. If he was going to find Helena in here, it was going to require a lot more searching than he had expected.

His eyes gained focus once more after weaving through the dark and dingy bar of people. The smoke and strobes had disappeared as he found himself at the edge of the room, which was really a balcony. He was on what looked to be the third floor, and he grasped onto the metal railing as he stared at what appeared to be a giant wrestling wring below him.

Well, that explained the two guards talking about fighting. So, this was a fight club, but he still didn't know who was fighting, at least not for sure. If he could pull Helena from the ring, get her out of there before they tried to rip her to pieces, then maybe he could get her to see the light. Nothing about this situation seemed pleasant, and the sinking feeling in his stomach grew. The people all around him were clutching onto those railings with white knuckles, shouting and cheering for the fighting that had yet to start up again.

One fight had just ended, hence the screaming and money strewn about like confetti. One of the fighters lay down in the middle of the ring, unmoving and clearly unconscious. As the winner stood to face the crowd, he was confronted with another unexpected shock. The fighters were women, and the one on the ground was now being carted away by medics, her body clearly bruised and twisted even though he was far away. Cheering and booing echoed in his ears as the winner leaned back against the ring, barely in a sweat and clearly apathetic.

Curious for answers more than ever, he moved around the railings, dodging crazed fans to get a better view of the ring. As he moved, he noticed more private areas around this level where tables were placed and businessmen conversed in hushed voices over dimmed lights. They glared at him as he passed; he recognized some of the faces, some of which were on his list. Maybe this was why. Whatever would draw them here had to be bad, or at least have some tainted connections.

Suddenly, everyone got quiet, and his attention was drawn to the stage as the lights faded to black. A man dressed in an expensive suit walked out onto the ring, smiling a crooked smile and holding a microphone. His face was pudgy, his face greasy, and everything about that man set all of his radars off.

"Ladies and Gentlemen! It is time for the final fight of the night!" the man announced and the crowd erupted into pandemonium. He tried his best to block them out, placing all his focus on the ring and the man below him as he continued eating the crowd's reactions. The showman ordered everyone quiet before continuing with his introductions. "Place your bets! Choose wisely! For this is the fight that we have all been waiting for! Long out for revenge and ready to claim the spot as champion, in the right corner, I give you the challenger, the Huntress!"

The crowd broke into cheer as the lights focused on the woman walking out onto the ring. His heart stopped as he took her in, her long brunette hair flowing around her full body suit of dark purple leather, a mask covering her gorgeously seductive brown eyes. Helena. She looked so much angrier than he remembered, and she was angry enough then. Her eyes showed pure fury, and the audience ate it up. He leaned forward on the metal bar, waiting in silent dread for the competitor.

"And on the opposing corner, here to defend her title, I give you long-time champ and four-year fighter, the Black Canary!"

There were more ear-splitting shrieks from the crowd, but he wasn't distracted by that. He hadn't gotten the chance to really see her earlier, the unfazed winner, and now he actually took the chance to size her up, see if Helena had a shot at winning. From first glance, she looked unassuming with her casual posture and lithe frame, but then he looked deeper, beneath her smoke and mirrors. Behind the navy leather jacket he could tell she was muscular, the ripples in the fabric a giveaway. Her body was contained in a black unitard that he could tell was old, and she wore fishnets over muscular yet slim thighs. The ankle boots were black as well, though the heels were a little impractical for a fight, and he was sensing a theme to her name. The only part of her getup that didn't make sense was the wild head of blonde curly hair and the blue eyes. But it were the eyes that gave away her true strength. Her calculating gaze was well hidden enough, but he knew that mask; he knew those tactics, to see and analyze without being seen, and he knew in that instant that Helena was screwed. There was no way she could win.

He watched on edge with bated breath as they took their places in the ring, the man ripping the bell, signaling the start of the fight. The chaos of the crowd didn't stop, not even as they stood, circling one another, Huntress with obvious tactic and intimidation, the Canary with a trained apathy that only seemed to infuriate Helena. Helena went in for the first punch, her fist flying in break neck speed toward Canary's face. She dodged with ease though, sliding under Helena's open arm, taking it with her and twisting it back. He could hear the bone crack under the pressure of Canary's vice grip and she screamed. The crowd cheered louder, and he clenched his fist.

The Canary let Huntress go, the latter cradling her left arm before going back in for another strike. This one hit, making contact with Canary's collar bone, but causing more pain for Helena as her knuckles split. Canary rubbed the area with a glare on her face before going after Helena before she could strike again, moving down low and sweeping her leg to knock Helena off her feet. Huntress fell to the ring with a thud on her side, but moved out of the way just in time to avoid another kick to the stomach. Instead, she went for Canary's feet, successfully dragging her down. The pair wrestled on the ground, Canary pinning Huntress under her, but the girl dodged all her punches. Huntress kicked her in the gut, throwing Canary off of her and she skidded to a halt on her feet. Huntress jumped up and with a wicked grin, ran full force after Canary.

This was her worst mistake, and his breath stopped short. He could see Canary doing the calculations; he was doing the same ones. She was going too fast; she had too much momentum to stop cleanly, and Canary used this to her advantage, grabbing the girl's damaged arm as she passed and throwing her to the ground again. She pushed her down on her chest, and Helena's body bounced as it hit this time. He could hear the air get knocked out of her, the thud of sheer weight forced to the ground, and he rose up from the masses, anger burning at the Canary. She didn't stop there though. As Helena rose up, Canary slammed her down harder to the ground; this time her head made contact with the mat. She stayed down.

The crowd roared and applauded their victor who looked anything but proud. The Black Canary held a straight face as she watched Helena be helped up by the greasy man and a few of the medics. Helena, stumbling and still furious, shoved them all away and stormed off the ring, glaring at Canary the whole time. He tried in vain to see where she was going, but lost her in the darkness of the masses that now flooded the ring. There were many tiny, dark tunnels spiraling out from the arena, and she could've left through any of them. He cursed silently to himself.

The people cheered as Canary's hand was raised in triumph to them, but she didn't even smile. He was sure that there was much to be traded at those gambling booths now. No doubt he could bust them all in any angry, righteous tirade. But he wasn't here for that. He was here for Helena, and now she was gone, disappeared into the darkness beyond the ring, not to be seen again.

He was seething with rage and the idea of failure. No, he did not work so hard to come up short now. He would find Helena, even if it killed him. So, he decided to go and channel his anger into the one person who knew anything about Helena Bertinelli. Shoving past the masses, he stalked the Canary from where she moved off the arena and into the dismal corridors, and notched another arrow, eyeing her like a bird of prey. She wasn't disappearing that fast.

He would get answers, one way or another.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 2 - Alliances

She was fast, he gave her that. She moved with silent grace, smooth and nearly untraceable even in heels, had he not honed his carefully-trained ears in on her. Her blackness faded and blended into the decaying walls that were covered in graffiti and chipping at the plaster. The noise still raging from above was like a muffled base that pounded in his ears and threatened to distort his vision at the edges, but he kept himself focused on her. He started looking at her hair, the only feature that really stood out amongst the dismal grey of the underworld she lived in like rays of sunshine. Unfortunately for her, it was a dead giveaway.

There were so many turns and caverns that it was dizzying, but he kept a cohesive map in his head. Every corkscrew brought new surprises, like cages of wild animals too vicious to be legally kept, cells with people in them, screams from far away making repercussions, throwing him off track. It was like a house of horrors, but she did not stop, so neither did he.

Finally, he heard her echoing steps slow and then stop, followed by the metal clang of a door. Seizing the moment, he rushed out from his hiding spot a few halls behind her to catch the door just before it clicked shut. He slipped stealthily through the miniscule crack without a sound, softly shutting the orifice behind him. It was cold to the touch, and as he let out a small breath, he could see smoke escaping from his lips.

It was cold and damp in the space he had entered, feeling more like a basement than a room, but it held minimal furniture and felt lived in regardless. There was a leak somewhere in the room, the occasional dripping noise coming from somewhere nearby. A worn sofa and table sat in the corner, the sagging wooded structure holding up and ancient TV that still required antennas to function. The screen was fuzzing on a dull mute, lighting up the space a little better than the dim bulbs hanging without covers from the ceiling. The only other signs of life in the room came from a noisy, yellowed refrigerator across from the couch, a cracked dartboard on the wall riddled with holes, the darts lying on a mini stool near the door. There was a purse on the stool as well, a hat hanging on the back of the door hook, and a mirror with a tiny table attached to it in the opposite corner, completely cleared off save for a brush and a few pictures taped to the glass.

There were no corners in the room for her to hide in, and she was definitely in here. He could feel it in the way his hairs stood up on the back of his neck. He notched an arrow and circled slowly, wandering over to the couch, checking on the other side of the far arm, just in case she had hidden there. All he found was cracked cement flooring. He turned to check under the table, and nothing other than a few old magazines lied neatly there. He muttered darkly under his breath, looking up from the floor to see a pair of scuffed black boots.

He shot up immediately, his bow whipping up to his chest, the green pointed arrow inches away from her nose, and the same stoic, blank look filled her features. She didn't even flinch at the weapon positioned in between her eyes. He glared menacingly at her, but still she gave no leeway. They stayed that way, unmoving and unblinking for a long time, not sure how or what to do. Finally she broke the stalemate and looked him up and down, just like she did with Helena, and he tensed, drawing the bowstring farther back. Either she didn't notice, or she just didn't care about the arrow currently intended for her head.

"You have three minutes to tell my why you're here before I break all the bones in your body," she stated plainly. The threat, though made with indifferent inflections, was completely serious. At least he could tell that much, but he highly doubted she could do much damage to him.

"Helena, where is she?" he practically growled, more as a command than a question.

"Who? You'll have to be more specific than that," she replied, taking a seat on the couch directly in front of him as if she had no cares in the world, as if this was a normal conversation rather than an interrogation.

"The woman you fought just now. _The Huntress_. She ran off the arena after the fight was over. Where did she go?"

"And you think I know where she went?" she asked, curious, but her face didn't give anything away.

"You were the last one to see her before she left,"

"And this automatically means I know where she's gone?" the Canary countered, her eyebrows raised with disdain.

He tightened his grip on the bow, raising it higher as his anger rapidly escaladed. He had a very short temper now; he couldn't deny that he was unstable at best. He didn't have time to waste talking to her. He needed answers, and he needed her to give them to him. Now.

Her face took on a more insightful look the more she observed him, now moving across from her seat to get a better look at him. She circled around to his side as if she were trying to find something.

"You know, you aren't very smart. Breaking into a fight club just to see a girl and then you try to track her down by terrorizing everyone else. Anyone else would call that stalking," she mused, eyeing him with her steely blue gaze. "But then again, you aren't just anyone, are you?"

"What does it matter? All I care about is finding Hel-"

"Helena Bertinelli. Heiress, daughter of local millionaire and crime lord Frank Bertinelli, lost her fiancé, wanted for murder on numerous occasions. Yes, I know who she is," the Canary rattled, her eyes widening in exasperation as she waved her hands around and leaned against the peeling wall. "The question is why do you want to find her?"

"I thought you said you didn't know who she was?"

"I said no such thing. You implied more into my question, and I let you."

"Where is she?" he advanced on her quickly, trapping her in a corner. She tried to take a swipe at his face, but he threw her hand back.

"Why is she of so much importance to you?" she asked, more curious than angry.

"That's none of your concern," he was struggling to remain collected at her defiant nature. Still, it felt like she was the one with the upper hand instead of him, disarming him with all her questions. She felt no fear; she faced him as any other competitor, and she was winning still.

"Then how am I supposed to trust you?" she bantered back, forcing eye contact. Their eyes were both an icy kind of blue, but hers had more to them than she led on. They were piercing, tough to read yet as curious as a child's. They were hypnotizing. Still, he held his fortress together and remained defensive. He knew as soon as he slipped she would slash him, and he could not lose when he was so close to finding Helena.

"You're not,"

She stopped, nodding in agreement. "Finally, some of the truth comes out."

"_Where is Helena_," he demanded, growing so close to her face that he towered over her, his hands fisting at his sides as he fought the urge to strangle her.

"I don't know," she replied calmly. His jaw clenched as he reached for her arm. She let him grab it and twist it roughly, but not before shaking his grip off. She yanked her arm away, the spot where he had clenched stinging, and shrugged her jacket back into place. She looked ticked, but she made no aggressive moves against him. "I truly do not know. But I do know that wherever she went, you won't find her."

"We'll see," he rumbled, his voice still low and dangerous.

He knew that she was telling the truth. Despite her more manipulative and enigmatic qualities, he could see the honesty in her expression as she told him. No one, not ever she was good enough to fake that kind of emotion. He stepped away from her, disgusted in her answer, and walked towards the window near the very top of her room. It was dirty and cracked, but he could hear the sirens from outside, the smell of wet pavement permeating his nose; it would serve as an effective short cut. Hopefully he hadn't wasted too much time. Hopefully he wouldn't find the trail dead…again.

"She does this every time she loses. She runs," Canary continued dryly, walking across the space, getting out a bottle of brandy from her fridge. She popped the top and poured herself a small glass. "She leaves for a while, comes back raising hell, causing chaos and destruction... and then she loses and it starts all over again."

She tilted the bottle towards him, but he did not respond. He looked at Canary, his vision narrowing at her, wondering just what she was getting at with all this.

"You won't find her; she's as good as gone until she comes back…if she comes back."

She raised the glass to her lips, not even flinching at the horrible taste of straight liquor. Smudges of red lipstick were left on the glass, staining it. She looked ahead at no one, casually glancing around the room, to occupy her time. He took notice that she was fidgety when given the choice. She always seemed to be on high alert…or maybe that was just because he was there.

"And what makes you think she won't?" he asked gruffly, his back to her.

"She thinks that I am her nemesis," she snorted, her laugh a little more masculine than most, and he swore that if he looked her straight in the face that she would be rolling her eyes. "She's lost too many times to me. Maybe she thinks she's embarrassed herself enough…"

He pondered that idea for a moment before quickly expelling it. No, Helena was never one to just give up. If anything, revenge and was something that she excelled in.

"Do you have any ideas of where she might have gone?" he tried again, though still with no kindness. She leaned back against the wall, trying to think, though he figured it was mostly to humor him.

"None," the Canary responded apathetically. It was clear to him that she was done with the conversation. "She wasn't exactly the personable type."

"Start thinking," he lashed out, advancing on her once more, snatching the glass from her hand and shattering it on the ground. She uncharacteristically flinched at the sound, her face angered in a stony dislike. She shoved past him and kicked the glass into a corner, turning back to reply with venom.

"Well, she's rich right? She owns planes and cars and boats, has a whole staff at her beck and call. She could go anywhere she wanted, anywhere in the world. You'd never find her."

He snorted as he processed what she was saying, weighing the truth in her words. He knew all of it was fact, but he refused to resign himself. There had to be another way. There had to be more, and suddenly, the craziest, and perhaps not the smartest nor safest idea entered his head. He turned and faced the Canary square on as he spoke.

"Maybe not alone."

She stood for a good five minutes with a blank expression, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted in utter disbelief as she fully comprehended what he was implying.

"Wait. You want me to help you find your missing girlfriend?" she managed, finally putting words to the plan. He didn't reply, and a horror-struck expression covered her face at his intentions. "Thanks but no thanks."

"I wasn't asking," he stated, his voice expressionless, but the power and command still lingered enough to keep her from moving…for now.

"You can't make me," she replied, stepping towards him, her body angled in a pose that looked ready to take him on if he tried. He, acting like a child, willingly engaged her, eager to fight for some unknown reason. He was just so tired of waiting for a fight to start. The tension was so high that it was suffocating him.

"Watch me."

They were unbelievable close once more, her nose upturned so that she could look him straight in the eyes. He knew she could do damage, and she knew that he was a force to be reckoned with as well. He wondered just as much as she who would win if they were to brawl, but it was the curiosity that kept them from tangling. Instead, she took a step back, smiling just a little.

"Why should I even help you anyway? You aren't exactly a worthy cause."

"Because you owe me."

"What? How the hell do I owe you anything?!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms in the air. "If anything, you owe me for breaking into my room and destroying my things."

"You're the reason she left, and you're going help me bring her back," he replied strongly, ignoring her pointless rant just made to infuriate him. She was good; she was learning how to push his buttons, but all the while he was learning to fight back as well. They really were a evenly-matched pair, and it scared him a little bit.

"That's a wonderful sentiment and all, but she _hates_ me. What makes you think that she would ever come back because of me?"

"I know Helena. She can't resist a chance at revenge. She'll come if it means fighting you."

"But I don't want to fight her," the Canary protested, tilting her head back in a pouty manner.

"I never said you had to. She just has to think it."

And in that moment, all the puzzle pieces that she was missing clicked into place. She smiled, but refused to let an incredulous laugh free. This man was insane, insane and completely dangerous. She had no duty, no reason to help him that she saw fit, yet she was compelled by him. She had to know more; his character was fascinating to her, more fascinating than anyone she had ever met before. It was that reason, that extreme curiosity, that found her agreeing with his ludicrous plans.

"Fine, I'll help you find her."

"Good," he replied soundly, shocked by how relieve he was that she had said yes, and how much he had wanted her to in the first place.

He turned away from her and towards the window again. He did the calculations once more and pulled an arrow out from his quiver, picking his bow back up.

"So when do we start?" she asked, a bored anticipation growing within her.

He didn't look at her when he answered. He merely strung the arrow and let it go. The metal pierced the glass instantly, shattering it to their feet. The shouts from the outside were louder now, but new sources of alarms were beginning to sound from the other side of the door well. She was shocked, but had no time to react as he turned to her and offered his hand.

"Now."


End file.
